“And what would you tell them if they were here now?” An appealing glint flickered in his eye, and she wondered what exactly he was expecting her to say. What he was hoping she would say?
She took her time before answering, thought carefully about what she was feeling. Was it contentment? A sense of adventure? She supposed with some surprise that it was a little bit of both. Her feelings about this man were changing, despite her resolve to be cautious.
Caution, as it happened, the very next instant took a holiday. Her reply came quickly, before she had a chance to heed it. “I would tell them that I prejudged someone that I should not have prejudged, and that I would like to start again with that person.”
They stood in the gallery facing each other, staring. His expression revealed very little, but enough to tell her that she had done well with her reply.
“I am a great believer in new beginnings.” He moved on, and she followed, feeling buoyant. “And I, too, have a sister I like to confide in, but I don’t think I will say anything like that to her. She is eighteen and romantic and will have it all over London by teatime tomorrow, that I have met the love of my life.” He grinned at Sophia. “And I don’t appreciate being the subject of gossip. Even if it is true.”
Sophia nearly swallowed her tongue. Had he just suggested that he had feelings for her? Or was it merely a hypothetical remark? She scrambled to fill the silence with a question while she recovered her equanimity. “You have a younger sister?”
“Three, actually. Two are married. One lives in Scotland and the other in Wales. Wonderful young women, all of them. I’ve even been blessed with two delightful nieces and a nephew.”
Sophia could feel her eyes widening with every word he spoke. He was not devilish at all—at least not tonight.
“You like children, Your Grace?”
“I adore them. Every country house should be filled to the brim with laughter and the pitter-patter of little feet—to coin a tired old phrase.”
If he was trying to impress her, he was doing an excellent job.
They began to talk about art again, discussing the latest trends and what the public galleries were displaying. They came to a Rembrandt, the
Young Woman Bathing
, and the duke reached out, as if he wanted to touch the canvas, but had to content himself with stroking the air in front of it. They admired the painting together for a moment.
“Notice the broad, creamy strokes there on the camisole,” he said, his voice quiet—almost a whisper— for her ears only. “And the flat, opaque glaze of the pool. Such flawlessness in the reflection. And here… the directional shaping of the legs.” The duke’s large hand moved about, as if caressing the woman’s bare skin.
Suddenly, a shiver coursed through Sophia’s veins as she imagined what his long fingers would feel like, moving up under her skirts and over her own bare thighs…
She suspected that most women would be shocked at what she was thinking and what he was saying, and by the seductive movement of his hand. She was a little shocked herself. Yet she could feel her body growing warm and relaxed. She imagined what it would be like to be free to melt into his arms here in the gallery. To be carried to that settee over in the dimly lit corner and be eased down upon it.
She worked hard not to sound breathless. “He is indeed a master.”
Did the duke speak this way to everyone? she wondered. Or was he trying to seduce her? If he was, she would feel quite certain that he—with his own personal style of brushstrokes—was the true master this evening, for he knew exactly what he was doing. He was turning her into warm honey.
They moved on down the long room and started up the other side. “Would you like to take a stroll through Hyde Park one day this week?” he asked. “The weather has been splendid lately. Wednesday perhaps?”
She thought of Lord Whitby then, and wished he had not spoken to her first this evening, for she could not accept the duke’s invitation when she already had a previous engagement. She began to feel a slight sense of panic, as if so much rested upon the outcome of this singular moment.
“Wednesday, Miss Wilson?” he pressed. “Or perhaps that is an inconvenient time.”
Oh
, he was retreating.
“No, no. It’s not that, or rather… yes, that is
all
it is. An inconvenient time. Another day, perhaps?”
“Thursday?”
“Thursday will be delightful.” Her heart breathed a sigh of relief.
“Excellent. Shall we return to the drawing room? No doubt your mother is wondering what has become of you.”
Sophia strolled into the room and met her mother. The duke exchanged pleasantries with her, then went to join a group of gentlemen on the other side of the room. Sophia watched him with an odd feeling of apprehension, realizing that with her unanticipated, fiery attraction to this man, her first, superficial impressions were becoming less and less a part of her idea of him. That worried her to no end, for she did not usually permit a fire in her blood to gain control over her intellect.
A few days later, hearing the clinking of plates in the dining room downstairs, Sophia took note of the time and realized how late it was. Her mother and Florence were having breakfast without her. With the help of her maid, Sophia quickly donned a late-morning gown of dark blue merino, rolled her hair up into a fashionable twist, and made her way downstairs to the parlor to join her mother and Florence for morning tea.
She stopped just inside the doorway. There on the table in the center of the room was a large bouquet of red roses.
She looked at her mother. “Heavens, where did these come from?”
Sophia walked slowly toward the bouquet, gently pulled a single flower to her nose, and inhaled the enchanting scent.
“Read the card and see for yourself,” her mother replied in a joyful, slightly smug voice.
Sophia made her way around to the other side, where the card was lying on the marble tabletop. If they were from the duke, she would not go weak in the knees or simper like a lovesick fool. She would be wise and cautious. He would have to know that she was a sensible and stable young woman, and unlike these flowers, was not so easily plucked.
She read the card silently to herself:
Delicate roses for a delicate rose of a woman. Whitby
.
She read it again and blinked slowly up at her mother. She tried to mask the fracture in her pride, and not to look too disappointed, for they were not even
from
the duke. “They’re from the Earl of Whitby.”
Sophia flipped the card over and handed it to her mother, who was holding out her arm, wiggling her little fingers with impatience.
Her mother read it. With a squeal, she handed it to Florence. “Look what it says!”
The countess took her turn reading it, then stood up to hug Sophia. “Red roses. How deliciously aggressive of him. It is a clear message indeed. Congratulations, my dear. You’ve hooked an earl. Though was there ever any doubt you would be a success here?” The two ladies hugged each other.
Sophia tried to force a smile. She didn’t want to dash their hopes just yet—for she had no intentions of marrying the Earl of Whitby, nor did she want them to know what was really going on inside her heart: that she was obsessing over a man she was still very uncertain about.
She felt it best to keep her cards close to her chest for now, until she could better evaluate the situation with the duke. She would know when the time was right to speak of it. Perhaps, if he did come today for the walk in the park as he said he would, Sophia herself could come to understand it enough to describe it.
“Well, what do you think of him?” Florence asked. “He’s one of the best catches. He’s already inherited his title, and he is handsome.”
Sophia nodded dutifully. “Of course he’s handsome, Florence. No one could argue that.”
Whitby had fair hair and a strong jaw; he was slender and had beautiful white teeth, and not a hint of the duke’s darker, more sardonic qualities. Perhaps she was wrong to discount the earl so quickly.
Just then, the butler appeared in the doorway. “Lady Lansdowne. There is a gentleman here to see Mrs. Wilson.”
Florence looked at Beatrice uncertainly. “It’s hardly the time for calls.”
“The gentleman claims it is a matter of particular importance, and he did not wish to wait, my lady.”
An unsettling silence hovered over them. “Who is it?” the countess asked.
“It is the Earl of Manderlin, my lady.”
Another silence ensued while Florence decided what to do. “Show him in. Sophia? You and I will speak to the housekeeper about having Cook prepare those German sour cream twists you like so much.”
Sophia and Florence left her mother in the parlor, to receive the Earl of Manderlin.
Not long after, the butler entered the kitchen to summon Sophia to the parlor, and she felt a sudden rush of uncomfortable dread. She followed the butler down the long front hall and into the room where her mother sat across from the earl. He rose when Sophia entered the room.
He was not a handsome man. He was small and slender, almost fragile in his appearance. Nor was he a warm man. He did not smile.
“Miss Wilson,” he said, “thank you for seeing me this morning. I have something very particular I wish to discuss with you.”
Her mother stood. “Perhaps I’ll wait in the front hall.” She walked out, looking a little pale. Sophia was beginning to feel a little pale, herself.
“Miss Wilson, I would like to ask for your hand in marriage,” he said flatly.
That was it? No caveat? Not even a little bit of flattery to precede the offer? Good God, did these Brits know nothing?
She moved fully into the room and stood before him only a few feet away. He looked a little taken aback, nervous all of sudden, when he had not been nervous before.
Gently, she said, “I thank you, Lord Manderlin, for the generous proposal. It is most tempting, but I’m afraid I must decline.” She was about to give him a polite reason why—to tell him that she wasn’t ready to accept
any
offer of marriage quite yet—but he stopped her with a bow.
“I do thank you for your time on this lovely morning, Miss Wilson. You have been most kind to hear my offer.” With that, he was out the door.
Sophia stood in the middle of the room, feeling utterly dumbfounded.
Her mother walked in. “What did you tell him?” she asked in a panic.
“I told him no, of course.”
“It happened so fast. What did he say?”
Florence came dashing into the room to hear what was said as well. Sophia repeated it—it took all of two seconds—and the three of them sank into chairs in the parlor.
“I told him it would be a mistake,” her mother said. “Truly, I tried to talk him out of it, but he would have none of that. He came here to propose to you, and he wasn’t going to leave here until he had done just that!”
The weight of the shock lifted, and Sophia began to feel her heart sinking. “That was the most
un
romantic proposal I’ve ever heard of. He must know the amount of my dowry.”
Her mother and Florence were quiet. The parlor maid brought in a large tray with a silver teapot, cups, and a plate of scones.
“Well, at least you have the Earl of Whitby to fall back on,” Florence said, pouring a cup of tea and trying to change the subject. “A much handsomer man. And I daresay, if the flowers are any indication—a more romantic one. Don’t you agree, Beatrice?”
Sophia, feeling a little uncomfortable at the reminder, accepted the teacup Florence handed to her.
“Let’s not forget the duke,” her mother said. “I haven’t given up on him yet. Perhaps he just needs a few more opportunities to see Sophia. Then he’ll be sending red roses, too.”
Florence was strangely quiet for a moment. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up about the duke.” She sipped her tea.
Sophia sat forward. “What do you mean, Florence? What do you know about him?”
The countess shrugged. “Oh, nothing really. I just don’t think he’s the marrying kind, and there’s no point wasting our
efforts when they would be better spent elsewhere, in areas with more potential, so to speak.”
“What makes you think that?” Beatrice asked. “He spent time alone with Sophia at the assembly the other night, and danced with her at the ball. He seemed the perfect gentleman, and very attentive to her.”
Florence began to speak in hushed tones. “Yes, but he has been known to do that from time to time, with some of the more attractive ladies in the Set. Nothing ever comes of it, though.” Florence lowered her voice even more and glanced over her shoulder at the door. “This is rather scandalous to speak of, but he has also been known to have brief affairs—discreetly of course—with married women. He’s broken a few hearts, I assure you.” Florence sipped her tea again. “He’s quite a womanizer. Without compassion, they say. He’s only interested in one thing and nothing beyond it. He’s said to have a black heart.”
Sophia felt sick.
“But who’s to say he hasn’t decided it’s time to choose a wife?” Beatrice argued. “He’s a duke after all, with a responsibility to carry on his line. Surely he must be thinking of that.”
“His line. That’s another thing. From what I’ve heard, the Wentworth Black Heart runs in the family. His father drank himself to death, and the duke before him—after a number of impossibly horrible scandals that some say involved his wife’s death—took his own life. He shot himself in the head.”
“Oh, good gracious,” Beatrice said.
“Yes, I know, it’s shocking, isn’t it?”
Beatrice scrambled to grasp at straws. “But maybe the duke hasn’t met a woman who has struck his fancy.” She smiled at Sophia, who remained silent only because she didn’t think she could move.
Florence poured herself more tea. “I still wouldn’t get my hopes up, Beatrice. Even his mother, the duchess, is afraid to push potential brides on him.”
“Afraid?” Sophia said, speaking up at last.
“Well, yes. You must have noticed that the duke can sometimes be—how shall I say it?—
intimidating
. From what I understand, he and his mother are barely on speaking terms. He quite despises her, and she does her best to stay out of his way. This is all drawing room gossip, mind you.”